Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Free e-book

THE ADVENTURES OF
SHERLOCK HOLMES
BY
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

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CONTENTS

I. A Scandal in Bohemia
II. The Red-Headed League
III. A Case of Identity
IV. The Boscombe Valley Mystery
V. The Five Orange Pips
VI. The Man with the Twisted Lip
VII. The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
VIII. The Adventure of the Speckled Band
IX. The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
X. The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
XI. The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
XII. The Adventure of the Copper Beeches

ADVENTURE I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
I.
To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under
any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and
predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene
Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were
abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most
perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has
seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the

softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They
were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives
and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such
intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a
distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental
results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would
not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a
nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late
Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own
complete happiness, and the home-centred
interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own
establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while
Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our
lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books,
and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the
drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He
was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties
and extraordinary powers of observation in following
out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by
the official police. From time to time I heard some
vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of
his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson
brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately
and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the
daily press, I knew little of my former friend and
companion.
One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was returning from a journey to a
patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my
way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always
be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with
the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes
again, and to know how he was employing his
extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall,
spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the
blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his
hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every
mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had
risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon
the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had
formerly been in part my own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly
a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me
to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in
the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked
me over in his singular introspective fashion.
“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half
pounds since I saw you.”
“Seven!” I answered.
“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in
practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you

intended to go into harness.”
“Then, how do you know?”
“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and
that you have a most clumsy and careless servant
girl?”
“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had you
lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a
country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my
clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary
Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how
you work it out.”
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.
“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just
where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six
almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly
scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove
crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile
weather, and that you had a particularly malignant bootslitting
specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms
smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of
silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he
has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I
do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.”
I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction.
“When I hear you give your reasons,” I remarked, “the
thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself,
though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am
baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours.”
“Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down into an armchair.
“You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is
clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this
room.”
“Frequently.”
“How often?”
“Well, some hundreds of times.”
“Then how many are there?”
“How many? I don’t know.”
“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know
that there are seventeen steps, because I have
both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and
since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my
trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-
tinted notepaper which had been lying open upon the table.
“It came by the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.”
The note was undated, and without either signature or address.
“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman who
desires to consult you upon a matter of the very
deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that
you are one who may safely be trusted with matters
which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have
from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at
that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.”

“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one
begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of
theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?”
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written.
“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my
companion’s processes. “Such paper could not be
bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.”
“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to
the light.”
I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with a small “t” woven into
the texture of the paper.
“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.
“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for
‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’
of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.”
He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves.
“Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far
from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of
the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my
boy, what do you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and
he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.
“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar
construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have
from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the
German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains,
therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and
prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here
he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating wheels against the
curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes
whistled.
“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of the window. “A nice little
brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and
fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.”
“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”
“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be
interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”
“But your client—”
“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that
armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused
immediately outside the door. Then there was a
loud and authoritative tap.
“Come in!” said Holmes.
A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the
chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich
with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands
of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and
fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his

shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at
the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended
halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops
with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by
his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed
hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the
cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had
apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From
the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of
strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution
pushed to the length of obstinacy.
“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent.
“I told you that I would call.” He looked from one
to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.
“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is
occasionally good enough to help me in my cases.
Whom have I the honour to address?”
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that
this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and
discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should
much prefer to communicate with you alone.”
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is
both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this
gentleman anything which you may say to me.”
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by binding you both
to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that
time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of
such weight it may have an influence upon European
history.”
“I promise,” said Holmes.
“And I.”
“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august person who employs
me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I
may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.”
“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.
“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench
what might grow to be an immense scandal and
seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter
implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings
of Bohemia.”
“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and
closing his eyes.
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man
who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most
incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and
looked impatiently at his gigantic client.
“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able
to advise you.”
The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation.
Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the
mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King.
Why should I attempt to conceal it?”

“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I
was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von
Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his
hand over his high white forehead, “you can
understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the
matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent
without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of
consulting you.”
“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.
“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the
acquaintance of the well-known adventuress,
Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”
“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For
many years he had adopted a system of docketing
all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a
person on which he could not at once furnish information. In
this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a
staff-commander who had written a monograph upon
the deep-sea fishes.
“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum! La
Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of
Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I
understand, became entangled with this young
person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters
back.”
“Precisely so. But how—”
“Was there a secret marriage?”
“None.”
“No legal papers or certificates?”
“None.”
“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for
blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their
authenticity?”
“There is the writing.”
“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”
“My private note-paper.”
“Stolen.”
“My own seal.”
“Imitated.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”
“We were both in the photograph.”
“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.”
“I was mad—insane.”
“You have compromised yourself seriously.”
“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.”
“It must be recovered.”
“We have tried and failed.”
“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”
“She will not sell.”
“Stolen, then.”

“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we
diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she
has been waylaid. There has been no result.”
“No sign of it?”
“Absolutely none.”
Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he.
“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully.
“Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?”
“To ruin me.”
“But how?”
“I am about to be married.”
“So I have heard.”
“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You
may know the strict principles of her family. She is
herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the
matter to an end.”
“And Irene Adler?”
“Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You
do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has
the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather
than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths
to which she would not go—none.”
“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”
“I am sure.”
“And why?”
“Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly
proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”
“Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn. “That is very fortunate, as I have
one or two matters of importance to look into just
at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?”
“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm.”
“Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.”
“Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”
“Then, as to money?”
“You have car te blanche .”
“Absolutely?”
“I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.”
“And for present expenses?”
The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he said.
Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it to him.
“And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.
“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”
Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was the photograph a cabinet?”
“It was.”
“Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for
you. And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the
wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. “If you will be good enough to call to-
morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like to chat this
little matter over with you.”
II.
At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The

landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after
eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of
awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply
interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange
features which were associated with the two crimes which I
have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave
it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of
the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of
a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which
made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle
methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable
mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his
failing had ceased to enter into my head.
It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and
side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and
disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing
powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times
before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence
he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and
respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front
of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes.
“Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie
back, limp and helpless, in the chair.
“What is it?”
“It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or what I
ended by doing.”
“I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and perhaps the house,
of Miss Irene Adler.”
“Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a little
after eight o’clock this morning in the character of a
groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be
one of them, and you will know all that there is to know. I
soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front
right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door.
Large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor,
and those preposterous English window fasteners which a
child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window could
be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked
round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else
of interest.
“I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there was a mews in a lane
which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the
ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in exchange twopence, a glass of
half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much
information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people
in the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least
interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to listen to.”
“And what of Irene Adler?” I asked.
“Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a
bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentinemews,
to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at
seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other

times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark,
handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a
day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of
a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a
dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they
had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony
Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign.
“This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That
sounded ominous. What was the relation between
them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his
mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the
photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question
depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge,
or turn my attention to the gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and
it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you
with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the
situation.”
“I am following you closely,” I answered.
“I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge,
and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably
handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached—evidently the man of whom I had heard.
He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the
cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who
was thoroughly at home.
“He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows
of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking
excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking
even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the
cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly, ‘Drive like the devil,’
he shouted, ‘first to Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street,
and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in
twenty minutes!’
“Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them when
up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman
with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness
were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn’t pulled up before
she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but
she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die
for.
“ ‘The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty
minutes.’
“This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether I should run for it, or
whether I should perch behind her landau when a
cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in
before he could object. ‘The Church of St. Monica,’ said
I, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It was twenty-five minutes to
twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind.
“My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but the others were there before us.
The cab and the landau with their steaming horses
were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man and hurried into the church. There
was not a soul there save the two whom I had followed and
a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three

standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side
aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three
at the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton
came running as hard as he could towards me.
“ ‘Thank God,’ he cried. ‘You’ll do. Come! Come!’
“ ‘What then?’ I asked.
“ ‘Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.’
“I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I found myself mumbling
responses which were whispered in my ear, and
vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying up
of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was
all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the
lady on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in
front. It was the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it
was the thought of it that started me laughing just now. It
seems that there had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman
absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort,
and that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets
in search of a best man. The bride gave me a
sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch chain in memory of the occasion.”
“This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” said I; “and what then?”
“Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the pair might take an
immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt and
energetic measures on my part. At the church door, however, they separated, he driving
back to the Temple, and she to her own house. ‘I shall drive
out in the park at five as usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away
in different directions, and I went off to make my own
arrangements.”
“Which are?”
“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ringing the bell. “I have been too busy to
think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this
evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your co-operation.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“You don’t mind breaking the law?”
“Not in the least.”
“Nor running a chance of arrest?”
“Not in a good cause.”
“Oh, the cause is excellent!”
“Then I am your man.”
“I was sure that I might rely on you.”
“But what is it you wish?”
“When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you. Now,” he said as he
turned hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had
provided, “I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two
hours we must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or
Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.”
“And what then?”
“You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point
on which I must insist. You must not interfere,
come what may. You understand?”
“I am to be neutral?”
“To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness. Do not join in

it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house.
Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window will open. You are to station
yourself close to that open window.”
“Yes.”
“You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.”
“Yes.”
“And when I raise my hand—so—you will throw into the room what I give you to throw, and
will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite
follow me?”
“Entirely.”
“It is nothing very formidable,” he said, taking a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. “It is
an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket, fitted with a
cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise your
cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite a number of people.
You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I
have made myself clear?”
“I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at the signal to throw in
this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and to wait you
at the corner of the street.”
“Precisely.”
“Then you may entirely rely on me.”
“That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepare for the new role I have to
play.”
He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the character of an
amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman.
His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general
look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr.
John Hare alone could have equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume.
His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to
vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost
an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in
crime.
It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to the
hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. It
was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as we paced up and down in front
of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming of its occupant.
The house was just such as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes’ succinct description, but
the locality appeared to be less private than I
expected. On the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably
animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men
smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who
were flirting with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed
young men who were lounging up and down with cigars in their mouths.
“You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the house, “this marriage
rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a
double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse to its being seen by
Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming to
the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the photograph?”
“Where, indeed?”
“It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet size. Too large for easy
concealment about a woman’s dress. She knows that
the King is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of the sort have

already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not
carry it about with her.”
“Where, then?”
“Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am inclined to think neither.
Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do
their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone else? She could trust her own
guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or
political influence might be brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that
she had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be
where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house.”
“But it has twice been burgled.”
“Pshaw! They did not know how to look.”
“But how will you look?”
“I will not look.”
“What then?”
“I will get her to show me.”
“But she will refuse.”
“She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out my
orders to the letter.”
As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue. It
was a smart little landau which rattled up to the
door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward
to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but
was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce
quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two
guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was
equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and
in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of
flushed and struggling men, who struck savagely at each
other with their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just
as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped to the
ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their
heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while
a number of better dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it,
crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured
man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top
with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall,
looking back into the street.
“Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked.
“He is dead,” cried several voices.
“No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll be gone before you can get him to
hospital.”
“He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the lady’s purse and watch if it
hadn’t been for him. They were a gang, and a rough
one, too. Ah, he’s breathing now.”
“He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?”
“Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!”
Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in the principal room, while
I still observed the proceedings from my post by
the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see
Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether
he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know that

I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life
than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and
kindliness with which she waited upon the injured man. And
yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he
had intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the
smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but
preventing her from injuring another.
Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A
maid rushed across and threw open the window.
At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the
room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no sooner out of
my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and
servant maids—joined in a general shriek of “Fire!”
Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I caught a
glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of
Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting
crowd I made my way to the corner of the street, and in ten
minutes was rejoiced to find my friend’s arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of
uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence for some few
minutes until we had turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware
Road.
“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could have been better. It is all right.”
“You have the photograph?”
“I know where it is.”
“And how did you find out?”
“She showed me, as I told you she would.”
“I am still in the dark.”
“I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The matter was perfectly simple. You,
of course, saw that everyone in the street was an
accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening.”
“I guessed as much.”
“Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I
rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face,
and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.”
“That also I could fathom.”
“Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could she do? And into
her sitting-room, which was the very room which I
suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They
laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were
compelled to open the window, and you had your chance.”
“How did that help you?”
“It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once
to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a
perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case
of the Darlington Substitution Scandal it was of use to
me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an
unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear
to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we
are in quest of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of
fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She
responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess
behind a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught

a glimpse of it as she half drew it out. When I cried out
that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I
have not seen her since. I rose, and, making my
excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph
at once; but the coachman had come in, and as he was
watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King to-morrow, and with you, if you
care to come with us. We will be shown into the sittingroom
to wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the
photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty
to regain it with his own hands.”
“And when will you call?”
“At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a clear field. Besides, we
must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a
complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without delay.”
We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets for
the key when someone passing said:
“Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”
There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting appeared to come
from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by.
“I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street. “Now, I wonder
who the deuce that could have been.”
III.
I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the
morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room.
“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking
eagerly into his face.
“Not yet.”
“But you have hopes?”
“I have hopes.”
“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”
“We must have a cab.”
“No, my brougham is waiting.”
“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off once more for Briony Lodge.
“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.
“Married! When?”
“Yesterday.”
“But to whom?”
“To an English lawyer named Norton.”
“But she could not love him.”
“I am in hopes that she does.”
“And why in hopes?”
“Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves her
husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not
love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your Majesty’s plan.”
“It is true. And yet—! Well! I wish she had been of my own station! What a queen she would
have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence,
which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She
watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the
brougham.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.
“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and rather
startled gaze.
“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her
husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for the
Continent.”
“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise. “Do you mean that
she has left England?”
“Never to return.”
“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.”
“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by
the King and myself. The furniture was scattered
about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the lady had
hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at
the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a
photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler
herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till
called for.” My friend tore it open, and we all three read
it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:
“MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—You really did it very well. You took me in completely.
Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a
suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been
warned against you months ago. I had been told that, if the
King employed an agent, it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me.
Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to
know. Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old
clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an
actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom
which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you,
ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you
departed.
“Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was really an object of interest to
the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather
imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple to see my husband.
“We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an
antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call tomorrow.
As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man
than he. The King may do what he will without
hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to
preserve a weapon which will always secure me from
any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to
possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
“Very truly yours,
“IRENE NORTON, née ADLER.”
“What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read
this epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick and
resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was
not on my level?”
“From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very different level to your
Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that I
have not been able to bring your Majesty’s business to a more successful conclusion.”
“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing could be more successful. I know that

her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as
safe as if it were in the fire.”
“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”
“I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring—” He
slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and
held it out upon the palm of his hand.
“Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,” said Holmes.
“You have but to name it.”
“This photograph!”
The King stared at him in amazement.
“Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.”
“I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honour to
wish you a very good morning.” He bowed, and,
turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off
in my company for his chambers.
And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the
best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten
by a woman’s wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not
heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler,
or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and
found him in deep conversation with a very stout, floridfaced,
elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to
withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room
and closed the door behind me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most
successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will
be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little
questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together,
as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know,
my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions
and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown
your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will
excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my
own little adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple
problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for
strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far
more daring than any effort of the imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”

“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall
keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason
breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has
been good enough to call upon me this morning, and
to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to
for some time. You have heard me remark that the
strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the
smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is
room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it is
impossible for me to say whether the present case is
an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular
that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you
would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because
my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part
but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible
detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some
slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other
similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present
instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a
dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket
of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust
forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a
good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the
indications which might be presented by his dress or
appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an
average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean
black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab
waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down
as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown
overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I
would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his
blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he
noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the
obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a
Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has
done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes
upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did
you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It’s
as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have
worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.”
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against
the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-andcompass
breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”

“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one
with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest
it upon the desk?”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been
done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo
marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the
fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China.
When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes
even more simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought at first that you had
done something clever, but I see that there was nothing
in it after all.”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining. ‘ Omne
ignotum pro magnifico ,’ you know, and my poor little
reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the
advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway down the
column. “Here it is. This is what began it all. You just
read it for yourself, sir.”
I took the paper from him and read as follows:
“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of
Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now
another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of £ 4 a week for
purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are
sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person
on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the
offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”
“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice read over the extraordinary
announcement.
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. “It is a little
off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said he. “And now,
Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the
effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You
will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date.”
“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping
his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s
business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a very large affair, and of late years it has
not done more than just give me a living. I used to be
able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but
that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn
the business.”
“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, either. It’s hard to say his age. I
should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes;
and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I am able to give him.
But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in
his head?”
“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employé who comes under the full
market price. It is not a common experience among

employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your
advertisement.”
“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow for photography.
Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be
improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop
his pictures. That is his main fault, but on the whole he’s
a good worker. There’s no vice in him.”
“He is still with you, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the place
clean—that’s all I have in the house, for I am a
widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a
roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing
more.
“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the
office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in
his hand, and he says:
“ ‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’
“ ‘Why that?’ I asks.
“ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth
quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I
understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at
their wits’ end what to do with the money. If my hair would
only change colour, here’s a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.’
“ ‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as
my business came to me instead of my having to
go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I
didn’t know much of what was going on outside, and I was
always glad of a bit of news.
“ ‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked with his eyes open.
“ ‘Never.’
“ ‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.’
“ ‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.
“ ‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere
very much with one’s other occupations.’
“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not
been over good for some years, and an extra couple of
hundred would have been very handy.
“ ‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.
“ ‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for yourself that the League
has a vacancy, and there is the address where you
should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an
American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar
in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed
men; so, when he died, it was found that he had left his
enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the
providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that colour.
From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.’
“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.’
“ ‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really confined to Londoners,
and to grown men. This American had started
from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then,
again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is

light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to
apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would
hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred
pounds.’
“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and
rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to
be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met.
Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it
that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day
and to come right away with me. He was very willing to
have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us
in the advertisement.
“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and
west every man who had a shade of red in his hair
had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-
headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like a coster’s
orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were
brought together by that single advertisement. Every
shade of colour they were—straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as
Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid
flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair;
but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could
not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and
right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a
double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but
we wedged in as well as we could and soon found
ourselves in the office.”
“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes as his client paused
and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of
snuff. “Pray continue your very interesting statement.”
“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind
which sat a small man with a head that was even
redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always
managed to find some fault in them which would
disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all.
However, when our turn came the little man was much more
favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he
might have a private word with us.
“ ‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the
League.’
“ ‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every requirement. I cannot
recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He took
a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful.
Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand,
and congratulated me warmly on my success.
“ ‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for
taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized my
hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’
said he as he released me. ‘I perceive that all is as it
should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by
paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which would
disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at

the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of
disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions
until there was not a red-head to be seen except my own
and that of the manager.
“ ‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon the
fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married
man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’
“I answered that I had not.
“His face fell immediately.
“ ‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that. The
fund was, of course, for the propagation and
spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that
you should be a bachelor.’
“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy
after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he
said that it would be all right.
“ ‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a point
in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours.
When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’
“ ‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I.
“ ‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I should be able to look
after that for you.’
“ ‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.
“ ‘Ten to two.’
“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially
Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before payday;
so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my
assistant was a good man, and that he would see to
anything that turned up.
“ ‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’
“ ‘Is £ 4 a week.’
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is purely nominal.’
“ ‘What do you call purely nominal?’
“ ‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave,
you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very
clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the conditions if you budge from the office
during that time.’
“ ‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said I.
“ ‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor business nor anything
else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.’
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica . There is the first volume of it in that press.
You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper,
but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?’
“ ‘Certainly,’ I answered.
“ ‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the
important position which you have been fortunate enough
to gain.’ He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing
what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good
fortune.
“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again; for I had

quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be
some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed
altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will,
or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the
Encyclopaedia Britannica . Vincent Spaulding did what he could
to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in
the morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I
bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I
started off for Pope’s Court.
“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The table was set out
ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to
see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he
would drop in from time to time to see that all was right
with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had
written, and locked the door of the office after me.
“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and planked
down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work.
It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten,
and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan
Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at
all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for
an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and
suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss of it.
“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and Armour
and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with
diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost me something in foolscap,
and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And
then suddenly the whole business came to an end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but the
door was shut and locked, with a little square of
cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read
for yourself.”
He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this
fashion:
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
IS
DISSOLVED.
October 9, 1890.
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until
the comical side of the affair so completely
overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client, flushing up to the roots of
his flaming head. “If you can do nothing better than
laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. “I
really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most
refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little
funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found
the card upon the door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but none
of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I

went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he
could tell me what had become of the Red-headed
League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr.
Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to
him.
“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’
“ ‘What, the red-headed man?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room as a
temporary convenience until his new premises
were ready. He moved out yesterday.’
“ ‘Where could I find him?’
“ ‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St.
Paul’s.’
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial
knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either
Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But he could not
help me in any way. He could only say that if I
waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish
to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had
heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came
right away to you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I
shall be happy to look into it. From what you have
told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight
appear.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not see that you have any
grievance against this extraordinary league. On
the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £ 30, to say nothing of the minute
knowledge which you have gained on every subject which
comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in
playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon me. It was
a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds.”
“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr.
Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your
attention to the advertisement—how long had he been with you?”
“About a month then.”
“How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”
“At half wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he’s not short of thirty.
Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as much,” said he. “Have
you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the
course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope
that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you make of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is
your commonplace, featureless crimes which are
really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be
prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t speak to
me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his
chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes
closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of
some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed
was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his
chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the
mantelpiece.
“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think,
Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few
hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”
“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some
lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal
of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French.
It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come
along!”
We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-
Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which
we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four
lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a
small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel
bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and
uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white
letters, upon a corner house, announced the place
where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it
with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his
eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then
down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the
houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the
pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to
the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young
fellow, who asked him to step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the

Strand.”
“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing the door.
“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the fourth
smartest man in London, and for daring I am not
sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-
headed League. I am sure that you inquired your
way merely in order that you might see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s
country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-
Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it
as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the
traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway
was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and
outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying
swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and
stately business premises that they really abutted on the
other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, “I should like
just to remember the order of the houses here. It is
a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, the
tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the
City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building depot.
That carries us right on to the other block. And now,
Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee,
and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and
delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but
a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon
he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin
fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and
his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the
relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it
was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself,
and his extreme exactness and astuteness
represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative
mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing of
his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was
never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he
had been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions.
Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come
upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until
those who were unacquainted with his methods would look
askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him

that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St.
James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to
hunt down.
“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged.
“Yes, it would be as well.”
“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg
Square is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in
time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather
complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army
revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on
his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a
sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock
Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his
words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what
had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still
confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in
Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the
Encyclopaedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg
Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal
expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were
we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced
pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a man who
might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter
aside until night should bring an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and
so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices
from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in
animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official
police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced
man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his heavy
hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you
know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be
our companion in to-night’s adventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his consequential way. “Our
friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather
gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent loftily. “He
has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t
mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a
detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice,
as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly

correct than the official force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with deference. “Still, I confess
that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for
seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber.”
“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for a higher stake to-night
than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be
more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some £ 30,000; and for you,
Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your
hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather,
but he is at the head of his profession, and I would
rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is
young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and
he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though
we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where
to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to
build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his
track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve had one or two little
turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that
he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If
you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow
in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab
humming the tunes which he had heard in the
afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into
Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director,
and personally interested in the matter. I thought it
as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his
profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave
as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and
they are waiting for us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the
morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door,
which he opened for us. Within there was a small
corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a
flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another
formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a
dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a
third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive
boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern and
gazed about him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the
floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he
remarked, looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes severely. “You have already
imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I
beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to
interfere?”

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression
upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees
upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the
cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to
satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly take any steps until
the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will
not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their
escape. We are at present, Doctor—as no doubt you have
divined—in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr.
Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to
you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a
considerable interest in this cellar at present.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings that an
attempt might be made upon it.”
“Your French gold?”
“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that
purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of
France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and
that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit
contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much
larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch
office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject.”
“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time that we arranged our
little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will
come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark
lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a
par tie car rée, you might have your rubber after all.
But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of
a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions.
These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us
some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this
crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them,
close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction
about shooting them down.”
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched.
Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern
and left us in pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced.
The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the
light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked
up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something
depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into Saxe-
Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I
asked you, Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter,
yet it appeared to me that the night must have
almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared

to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up
to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the
gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish
the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank
director. From my position I could look over the case in the
direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it
became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or
sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which
felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a
minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was
withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark
again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the
broad, white stones turned over upon its side and
left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge
there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly
about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and
waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In
another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe
and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of
very red hair.
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie,
jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down
the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as
Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’
hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol
clinked upon the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at all.”
“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right,
though I see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.
“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you.”
“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing down holes than I
am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as the
handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware
that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to
say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’ ”
“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs,
where we can get a cab to carry your Highness
to the police-station?”
“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and
walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.
“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, “I do not
know how the bank can thank you or repay you.
There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of
the most determined attempts at bank robbery that
have ever come within my experience.”
“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes. “I

have been at some small expense over this matter,
which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an
experience which is in many ways unique, and by
hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.”
“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of
whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly
obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the
advertisement of the League, and the copying of the
Encyclopaedia , must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number
of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it,
but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to
Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice’s
hair. The £ 4 a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were
playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one
rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together
they manage to secure his absence every morning in the
week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious
to me that he had some strong motive for securing the
situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive was?”
“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That,
however, was out of the question. The man’s
business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such
elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as
they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the
assistant’s fondness for photography, and his trick of
vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made
inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had
to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing
something in the cellar—something which took many hours a
day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he
was running a tunnel to some other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon
the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining
whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell,
and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had
some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his
face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must
yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those
hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they
were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on
our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my
problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the
chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you
have seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I asked.
“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about
Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other words, that
they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might
be discovered, or the bullion might be removed.
Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their
escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come

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